


Dream About That Casual Touch

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Awkward Dates, Bathroom Sex, Butch Louis, Dating, F/F, First Time, Insecurity, Lesbian Problems, Miscommunication, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: And that was the first thing Louis noticed about her. Not her nipples, or notonlyher nipples, anyway, but the fact that she was so confident with her body and didn’t seem to care that her tits were sort of soft and floppy and uneven or that she had a little roll of pudge around her hips that poked over the top of her jeans when she wore crop tops. She wore what she wanted to wear whether or not it was in fashion or technically even flattering; her hair was always messy, she only wore makeup half the time, and she seemed to like heeled boots even if she was already fairly tall and they made her tower over the boys. Louis always thought it was so fuckingsexyhow unconcerned Harry seemed with what people thought of her, how comfortable she was in her own skin. That by itself seemed like a sort-of gay thing, so Louis kept a remote, careful eye on her, hoping to one day see something else that blipped her radar.---Or, Louis and Harry fuck up two dates before they finally get it right.





	Dream About That Casual Touch

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story in 24 hours while drunk on champagne. I kept meaning to do two things in two different girl direction fics: 1. talk about Harry's nipples because I head canon her as the type of girl who NEVER wears a bra which naturally drives Louis MAD 2. address the deep seated fear wlw have regarding open communication and making moves where dating other girls is concerned. Champagne told me to put them into the same story, and this is what happened. I hope you all like it and it motivates you to ask out the girl of your dreams!
> 
> Title from Haley Kiyoko's Feelings, which should motivate you to do the same. 
> 
> Huge thank you, as always, to Hurdy Gurdy, who will read everything I give her, even if there are no dicks. Thank you endlessly Hen.

“Anything look good?” Louis dares to ask, nervously sipping her Diet Coke, straw pressed between pursed lips. She doesn’t even _like_ Diet Coke, but she’s downed more than half her glass in half a minute, just so that she has something to do save for stare across the table at Harry, the prettiest girl in the world and also somehow, _shockingly_ , Louis’s date. The mere thought sends another pang of anxiety through Louis’s body, so she takes another sip, hating the weird, chemical aftertaste. She only ordered this dumb drink because she and Harry decided that they were gonna go on the most American date they possibly could. Which is how they ended up here, at the Gourmet Burger Kitchen at the Westfield Mall in London, because neither of them could actually bring themselves to eat at an honest-to-god _Burger King_. The Diet Coke that Louis’s compulsively guzzling is bad enough. 

This is their second date, and Louis _thought_ that having a theme or a goal, no matter how silly or absurd it was, would make it less awkward than their first. Clearly, she was wrong.

“Erm…,” Harry mumbles, thumbing through the menu, rings glinting in the low light because this burger place is posh enough to have _mood lighting_ , even if it’s at a mall. Louis stares at those fingers and takes another sip. “There are a few things that sound good, but they also don’t sound very _American_ …maybe I’ll get this one. It has California in the title.” 

“You don’t have to feel pressured to keep to the theme, Harry, you can get whatever you want,” Louis says, and she tries to sound, like, _accepting_ or warm or _funny_ at the very least, but instead it comes out weird and accusatory because 1. she’s paralyzingly nervous, 2. she’s full of a very fizzy and evil drink, and 3. Harry’s so fucking attractive and lovely that Louis can’t actually _speak_ to her with the intended tone, ever, her breath catching in her throat the second she tries. 

In short, Louis is a #BadDate, and this is likely the last time she’ll get to take Harry out, all because she likes her _too much_ to be suave or interesting or clever in her presence. “I want the California one, though,” Harry announces, shutting her menu. “It just sounds good, I guess. And it’s vegetarian.” 

Louis internally panics for a moment. Has Harry been a _vegetarian_ this whole time, and she only just now noticed? And she took her to a _burger joint_ for their second date? “Shit, Harry, do you…are you—?” she manages to get out, and Harry looks up from the table to make eye contact, very nearly fucking bowling Louis over, she’s so pretty. Round, rosy cheeks that dimple when she laughs (Louis was _at least_ able to get her to do _that_ a few times when they first met), unruly curls chopped into a short, uneven bob, sort of like a fluffier, less punk Joan Jett. And then there are her _lips_ , pink and glossy, even though Louis’s pretty sure she doesn’t even wear gloss. They’re just _like that,_ a wide expressive shape that Louis’s perpetually distracted by every time Harry tells some long, meandering story. And now she feels awful for it, awful for fantasizing about snogging Harry breathless in the middle of something she was saying because _clearly_ she zoned out during whatever conversation they had where Harry told her that she was a _vegetarian_. “M’so sorry, this is probably, like, the _last_ place you wanna eat—”

“Oh! No, no, I’m not a vegetarian!” Harry hastily interrupts, blushing even deeper as she gestures with her big, clumsy hands, holding them up like she’s been accused of a crime. Again, Louis stares, because staring at her hands, no matter their state, is more tolerable than staring at her lips. She has charcoal or something smudged on the outside of the left one and paint on her wrist, a salmon colour that clashes magnificently with the chipped red varnish on her nails, and Louis is so absorbed in these details that it actually takes her a moment to process what Harry has said. 

“Wait, you aren’t? You’re not,” Louis says slowly. “Oh. Well, then.” 

“No, m’not, I, like…love bacon and a good roast. I just try to eat vegetarian sometimes, especially when m’out to eat since I can be, like…erm…paranoid about food preparation since I worked in a bakery? I know how shit goes down back there in the kitchens…and the time I got food poisoning in France had me puking the whole night in our hotel room, and it was awful, so….erm...yeah,” she trails off, getting steadily pinker the whole time she’s talking. She takes forever to tell stories, and they hardly ever go anywhere, but Louis _loves_ this about her, could endlessly watch her pretty lips form words, listen to her low voice get lower and lower after each drawn out _erm_. “I’m sorry,” Harry adds after a minute, looking down and anxiously fiddling with one of her rings. “I suppose that’s, like, Dating 101. Don’t talk about getting sick.” 

“No, no, s’fine. I’m just. Fuck. M’so glad that I haven’t been dragging a vegetarian to all these meat-centric establishments. _That’s_ Dating 101.” 

“Well, it’s fine because m’not. A vegetarian, I mean,” Harry clarifies. 

And then they sit there in awkward silence and wait for the waitress, Louis slurping down the remainder of her Diet Coke like it’s a shot, Harry compulsively spinning one of her rings on her finger. At some point, Harry takes off her pullover, and Louis’s faced with the horror of what she's wearing underneath, which is a very, very thin, nearly threadbare white crop top that says _rad_ on it. Harry never wears a bra, so Louis can not only see her nipples, puffy and delicious-looking through this infernal shirt, but also, like, the shape and darkness of her _entire areola_. Because she’s probably a twelve-year-old boy, it makes her _actually throb_ , and she has to press her thighs together under the table to stave off the ache like some sort of heathen. 

Harry acts like she’s done nothing unusual, like she hasn’t just ended Louis’s world; it’s just how she is, all messy hair, don’t care, nipples out, loud and proud. It’s absolutely maddening. 

Louis’s left to wonder how she could have fucked up not one but _two dates_ with the girl of her dreams. Not that their first date was disastrous or anything, it was…just…not what she was expecting. She hadn’t even known that Harry liked girls before she asked her out ( _yes_ , Harry asked _Louis_ out, which in and of itself had her reeling with shock) because Louis can hardly tell actual lesbians apart from artsy girls anymore. She’d had a crush on Harry as soon as she noticed her at uni, always paint-splattered and sort of disheveled in her vintage high-waisted skirts and the flowy, semi-translucent blouses she sometimes wore with tattered lacy bralettes because she was apparently the sort of girl who didn’t give a shit if her nipples were showing.

And that was the first thing Louis noticed about her. Not her nipples, or not _only_ her nipples, anyway, but the fact that she was so confident with her body and didn’t seem to care that her tits were sort of soft and floppy and uneven or that she had a little roll of pudge around her hips that poked over the top of her jeans when she wore crop tops. She wore what she wanted to wear whether or not it was in fashion or technically even flattering; her hair was always messy, she only wore makeup half the time, and she seemed to like heeled boots even if she was already fairly tall and they made her tower over the boys. Louis always thought it was so fucking _sexy_ how unconcerned Harry seemed with what people thought of her, how comfortable she was in her own skin. That by itself seemed like a sort-of gay thing, so Louis kept a remote, careful eye on her, hoping to one day see something else that blipped her radar. 

What happened instead was that they ended up at the same pub one Thursday night, having been dragged there by their respective best mates. Louis was midway through a minor heart attack about it until her wing woman, roommate, and all-around partner in Gay Crime Veronica fed her enough liquor to work up the courage to talk to Harry. She hardly remembers the conversation, only that Harry was delightfully goofy and a lot less coolTM than she anticipated, which was great because she genuinely loves dorky girls. There was a lot of laughter, a few more drinks, and then Harry saying, _so, you can tell me to piss right off if this is too forward, too weird or anything…but, like. If you’d ever want to go out some time, I’d really like that._

Louis, who had asked very many girls out but who had never actually been asked out herself, sort of stood there, brow furrowed, oversized Adidas hoodie suddenly feeling too hot for this crowded, smoky pub. She had fiddled with the hole she cut in the sleeve to put her thumb through, almost too stunned to be polite as she blurted, _what, like, out on a date? A date date?_

_A date date, yeah_ , Harry mumbled, messing with her hair, eyes on the floor. They were so pretty and green, and Louis wanted to see them again, so her stomach turned with the shock of dreams made reality when Harry looked up quickly, eyes hopeful, red spots on her cheeks. _But only if you want to! God. Sorry I'm being so embarrassing._

Louis had laughed, so stunned that this was even happening, eager to reassure her, _god, no...not embarrassing at all, I’d love to go out with you, Harry,_ and then, with trembling fingers jammed into her pocket to fish out her mobile, _gimme your number, yeah?_

And Harry had _given_ it to her, had pressed a lingering, boozy kiss to Louis’s cheek and texted her back almost immediately when Louis tried her the next day, newly terrified and skeptical now that she was sober and so many things seemed less plausible by daylight. 

They agreed to get dinner at a Soho hotspot, and Harry hadn’t stood her up or anything. She wore a huge, soft-looking lavender jumper that nearly came down to her knees, presumably with nothing but underwear on underneath it, and Louis was half-certain she was gonna get under that jumper, even while not letting herself fully believe it. It’s just that Harry had been so _flirty_ over text, sending sweet, stupid jokes and even the occasional dorky selfie leading up to the date, like she was really interested, like she couldn’t wait to hang out. 

But then the date actually happened, and Louis spent the entire time feeling weird and self-conscious and shy and shitty for wanting to fuck Harry as badly as she did. And as a result she was _awkward_. Distracted and tense, all of her jokes falling flat because Harry and her jumper robbed her of the ability to actually deliver them like jokes. Furthermore, she felt _guilty_ for looking at Harry’s legs (she has a fucking tiger tattoo on her creamy thigh, she doesn't shave, and something about this combo makes Louis absolutely speechless with want), she felt _guilty_ for wanting her so badly, for acting like a fucking teenage boy at his first prom. _What if she isn’t that sort of girl and wants to take it slowly?_ she had thought, tearing her eyes away from Harry’s chest, where she could very nearly see her fucking _nipples_ though the loose, soft knit. _What if she thinks you’re a creep? What if she’s disappointed now that she’s seeing you in proper light and isn’t drunk anymore? What if you aren’t what she expected, and now you’re, like, very obviously ogling her and she’s freaked out?_ The paranoid thoughts kept coming, so Louis spent the rest of the night trying to be a Very Respectable Lesbian. 

They ordered wine and Harry loosened up a little, which helped, and for a second Louis thought that she might be able to remember how to be, like, _funny and normal again_ , but then Harry idly tugged at her jumper, pulling the wide neck off her shoulder to reveal _no bra strap_ , and Louis was forced to think about her braless and felt skeevy and horrible all over again, so she just. Clammed up. Forgot how to talk. Decided that she should be carted off to jail for being inappropriate in a posh restaurant on the very first _date_ , like some sort of sex addict. 

Dinner ended, and Louis walked Harry to the tube, hands wrist-deep in the pockets of her drop-crotch trackies that she was suddenly worried were too informal (even though they were designer). It was safer to keep her hands in her pockets, just so she didn't have to stress about whether or not she should try her luck holding Harry’s hand.

Outside the tube station, Harry ( _miraculously_ ) kissed her on the lips, briefly and softly, a goodbye that could have maybe gone on longer if Louis hadn’t broken it, desperate to breathe, to check if the world was dissolving around her like a sugar sculpture in the ocean. Harry’s lips had been so soft and chapped, breath tasting like chardonnay and mint and sweetness, and _god_ , why was Louis so insufferably awkward around girls that she actually liked? Why was her instinct to push Harry away? Has she so little restraint that she’s legitimately afraid she’d, like, climb her and start humping her leg or something? 

She was sure there would be no second date. But then there was. And here they are. And at least she can be certain there will be no _third_ date because if she didn't screw it up before, she certainly has _now_. 

Their waitress comes, they order their food, and Louis gets a refill of Diet Coke so that she can make herself even _sicker_. She and Harry trade painfully slow small talk across the table until their food comes, Louis picking at her burger while she steals longing glances at Harry because the way that Harry eats _shouldn’t_ be hot, but Harry Styles seemingly defies logic because it _is_. She sticks her tongue fully out before she bites down, and she's _so messy about it_ , sauce just oozing out the sides of her burger as she holds it, all the juices dripping down onto her fingers, which she sucks off before taking another big, not at all dainty, bite. Louis doesn’t want to be rude by staring, and she especially doesn't want Harry to think that she thinks _she’s_ being rude by eating in such an undignified manner, but if this is her last date and she’ll never again witness such a crass, carnal display, she should get her fill, right?

Eventually Harry sets down her burger, licks her fingers clean, and then wipes them off with a napkin after the fact, which is endearingly beside the point. Taking a swig of her own Coke, she makes a face and says, “Is yours good?” 

“Is…what?” Louis asks, snapped out of her reverie. 

“Your burger?” Harry clarifies, which is helpful because Louis is so focused on the slow, careful, methodical destruction of Harry’s burger that she’s neglected her own. 

“Oh...it’s good,” she lies, not registering one bit how it actually tastes. 

Harry sighs, sitting back and crossing her arms over her chest. “Louis…can I ask you a sort of awkward question?” 

And here it comes. Louis’s such a #BadDate that Harry can’t stand it for another second. She’s so bored and uncomfortable that she can’t even finish her food; she wants to ask Louis if she can leave _right now_ , it’s so bad. Louis nods before she says anything, shrugging because that’s all she can really do with her voice stuck in her throat like this. She takes a frantic sip of her drink and manages to get out, “Sure, yeah, what's up?” 

The silence stretches out for an agonizing moment while Harry nervously chews her lips, and then it comes. 

“Just…are you attracted to me at all? Because it seems like you aren’t, which is…totally fine, you’re allowed that, of course. But, like, if you aren’t, why did you agree to a second date? I just…I feel like an idiot, really, sitting here trying so hard when it seems like you don't even really want to _talk_ to me, and you just…if this is a pity thing, you don’t have to follow through on it. S’okay,” she babbles, staring at her plate the whole time, worrying one curl to mere frizz as she relentlessly winds and unwinds it around her finger. 

Louis chokes on her Diet Coke. There is….there’s a lot to process in this monologue, and probably a sensitive way to approach it, but Louis’s so fucking astounded by the first question that she can hardly begin to process anything that followed, let alone navigate _sensitivity_. “Wait…Harry. Harry, of _course_ , I’m attracted to you,” she blurts, because it’s the truth. “Fuck. I don’t see how you could miss it, I’m so fucking attracted to you... _I’m_ the one who’s been acting like an idiot.”

“You are?” Harry asks, surprised, her eyes jumping to Louis’s, gaze wet and glistening. 

“Erm, _yes_. Like, so attracted to you that it’s severely interfered with my ability to function. I’ve been so nervous, all last date and today, too. Can’t seem to get over the fact that you want to go out with me at all, so, like…shit, I’ve been a _terrible_ date because of it. You’re so fit, and I can hardly speak around you. M’so, so sorry,” she explains.

Harry actually laughs, a sudden, snorting honk that sounds like a goose. It seems to startle her as it comes out, and she claps her hand over her mouth, cheeks red and chest heaving. “Oh, god,” she breathes, clearly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to laugh, m’not laughing at you, I swear, I just, I can’t believe _you’re_ nervous. You seem so confident and perfect and _aloof_ all the time, I thought…I thought it was just me. Ruining everything.” 

“You haven’t ruined _anything_ ,” Louis assures her, throat aching as she starts to realize for the first time since Harry’s confession that maybe she’s misjudged this situation, maybe they _both_ have, and all the awkwardness was just nerves and poor communication and that lesbian curse where neither girl wants to make the first move out of a paralyzing fear that she’s being too much. Maybe this isn’t their last date after all. “ Harry, I’ve been _so_ nervous,” Louis makes herself say. “M’so sorry it came across as being _aloof_ , that’s the last thing I wanted…I just. I was worried that if I was too obvious about how much I liked you, it would be, like, too forward. Or something. And _I_ wasn’t sure that you were attracted to _me_ , if I’m honest.” 

Harry looks down, shaking her head, tongue pressing into her cheek for a moment before she looks up, catching Louis’s gaze again. There’s a sudden darkness to her eyes, pupils big and dark and hot as she quietly asks, “Are you kidding?” Then, she leans across the table so that she's close enough to be heard at a whisper and says, “The first time we talked, at the pub? I was shaking for hours after I kissed your cheek. And the last time? When I kissed you at the tube? Just doing that made me so fucking wet, I was a mess when I got home…Louis you drive me _crazy_ , just being around you turns me on. It’s embarrassing.” 

Heat coils suddenly in Louis’s gut, burning her up from the inside out, so powerful that she very nearly gasps. “Jesus, Harry,” she whispers back, voice all thin and reedy as it comes out. “You don’t even _know_ what you do to me. Your…fuck. Everything you do, the way you eat, the way you talk. Your shirts that I can always see through. M’always just wanting to touch you, I thought…I thought it would scare you away.” 

Harry flattens her palms on the table on either side of her plate, pressing down and making a muted, choked sound in the back of her throat as she shakes her head, curls bouncing. “No, no, no, I want you to touch me. M’always dreaming of you touching me...I think about it, think about it all the time. Have for as long as I’ve known who you are.” 

Louis’s moved by how _affected_ Harry seems, her pink cheeks and her puffy nipples suddenly hard under that thin, white fabric, so pretty and prominent that Louis can imagine what they’d feel like in her mouth. She wonders how much of Harry’s stilted, clumsy awkwardness during their last two dates has been not only because she’s nervous but also _turned on_. Louis shivers before she grins and asks Harry, “And how long is that?” 

“God, I dunno, months. I’ve always thought you were so hot but was too afraid to talk to you…plus, I wasn’t even sure that I could be your type or that you’d be into me. I mean, I know this is silly, but you’re, like….sort of butch and sporty, and I’m an art student and not exactly femme, and I know it’s not _primary school_ , but I just…I don’t know. Thought I wasn’t pretty enough for a girl like you.” 

“You’re pretty enough for any girl in the world,” Louis breathes, shaking her head. “And even if you weren’t, you’re funny and so sweet and talented, so, like…yeah. Anyone would feel lucky to go on a date with you. I know I did, and then I had to go and be so awkward that I made you think I wasn’t interested. What a load of shit.” 

Harry giggles, flirtily pushing her hair out of her face, blushing, and _god_ , why hasn't Louis been complimenting her this whole time? She fucking _blooms_ under the praise, all glowy and pink and sparkly-eyed. _You’re perfect, I’ve made myself come thinking about getting into your flimsy shirts and sucking on your nipples until they’re swollen and pink, about spreading you on my bed and eating you out until your legs are shaking. You’re all my fantasies, every single one._

“So,” Harry says, grabbing her burger and taking another obscene bite. “You like how I eat? Because I’ve been so insecure about it, especially when you took me to that posh place last time…my mum always jokes that I was raised in a pub, like how people ask, “Oh, was she raised in a barn?” when they see abominable table manners. Because I was, like, actually raised above a pub.” 

“I think it’s cute,” Louis tells her, thoroughly endeared by the inefficient way that Harry tells stories, like she’s feeling around a room in the dark. 

“Well, I’m relieved,” Harry says with a full mouth, before chewing and swallowing. “And you like my see-through shirts?” she adds, grinning big and cheeky as she sits up, pushing her chest out. Her tits, which aren’t exactly huge but are certainly not _small_ , not small enough for it to be socially acceptable for her to go braless as frequently as she does, sway with the motion, moving under the fabric in a way that makes Louis’s gut clench in longing. “I have to admit, I sort of might have deliberately worn the raunchiest stuff I own to seduce you. Took me, like, a million hours to get dressed last time...wore that jumper as a dress hoping you’d catch a glimpse of my knickers under it, or something, and take me home and ravish me…was devastated when it didn’t work.” 

“I wanted to,” Louis confesses, digging her nails into her own thighs under the table, so hot and shivery and overwhelmed, stunned that Harry’s just _talking_ about this stuff in _public_ , admitting to wanting Louis to fuck her, right here in this burger place where anyone around them could hear. “Wanted to so badly...thought you looked so perfect…god, your legs, Harry. Just wanted to get between them.” 

“Fuck,” Harry murmurs, reaching out with the toe of her boot and tapping the outside of Louis’s calf before drawing it up to her knee, and it shouldn’t feel good, it shouldn’t make Louis wet, it’s a _shoe_ , after all, but _god_ does her stomach swoop. “I thought you didn’t notice or that I wasn't your type. I don’t know.” 

“You’re absolutely my type,” Louis corrects her, knowing full well that anything she says is going to be an understatement. “Like, just now, watching you in your shirt? You’re driving me mad. Like, how am I supposed to finish this burger and take you to a movie and carry on with the rest of our plans when you’re sitting there in this shirt that I can see _everything through_ and—”

Harry shakes her head, cheeks so bright, a hectic sort of madness in her eyes that makes Louis feel like she can hardly breathe, like all the air will evaporate from her lungs if she looks at her for very long. “Then don’t,” Harry says. “Take me to the toilets, right now. I won’t last long, I come fast—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis curses, lightheaded because Harry _cannot_ be talking about how _fast_ she comes in a fucking restaurant, and she _definitely_ cannot be suggesting that Louis _fuck_ her in the _mall toilets_. Louis hasn’t done something like that since she was seventeen and nearly blackout drunk at her first gay club. “Yeah? You want that?” 

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry hisses, licking her lips, making them look even fuller and redder than usual, dissolving Louis’s last remaining shred of logic or sanity. “ _Please_.” 

She gets up, leaving her pullover draped on the back of her chair, high-waisted pink skater skirt flipping up as she spins a bit in place, teasing, flaunting. “C’mon,” she insists, looking at Louis over her shoulder, expression equal parts nervous and coy. “No one will even notice if two girls to to the toilets together.” 

Louis isn't sure; she thinks that people _might_ notice two girls going to the toilets together if one of the girls looks like her, with her trainers and snapback and short, choppy haircut making her look like some boy band’s frontman. She’s been mistaken for a boy more than once--in the queue waiting to buy a coffee, at the gym when she’s heading into the women's locker room and people aren’t sure she’s in the right place. They always correct themselves in seconds, flustered at having gotten it wrong, but Louis doesn't mind much, not really. Being visibly gay and androgynous has always made it easier for her to identify herself to other girls like her, and she could never be anything but grateful for that. “I hope so,” she mumbles, standing up and following Harry, stomach plummeting when Harry reaches behind her back to grab Louis’s hand and squeeze it. Her rings dig into Louis’s palm, making Louis forget why she was so nervous in the first place because just getting to _touch_ Harry, getting her skin under her mouth, is the most important thing in the entire world, the only thing there _is_. 

Once they’re properly inside the toilet, which is narrow and thankfully single-stalled, Harry latches the door behind them with shaking fingers. Then she whips around, stumbling, eyes all bright and wild. “Can I kiss you?” she asks, biting her lip. “You won’t pull away this time?” 

Louis nods, answering Harry’s question by wrapping her arms around her waist and pulling her in close. They both stumble, Harry on her heeled boots and Louis under the weight of her body, drunk on the heat of her, the smell of her anxious sweat. She rolls onto her tiptoes so that she can reach Harry’s lips, which are flushed and swollen and delicious, the prettiest, most perfect things she’s ever kissed. Harry opens up for her easily, everything hot and plush and slick as Louis licks up into her mouth, desperate for it, so hungry that she’s dizzy. And _finally_ , they’re snogging, fierce and messy, Harry’s hands in her hair, pushing off her hat so that she can make fists, pulling her closer, closer. 

Harry’s a sloppy, wet kisser, and she’s _noisy_ , groaning into Louis’s mouth, whimpering as Louis pushes a hand up her shirt, cupping her ribcage. Her thumb fits so easily into the slots between her ribs, and it’s _wonderful_ , how she can feel the frantic flutter of of Harry’s heart underneath the spread of her palm, the craziest, most intimate thing. “What do you want?” she presses into the slick of their mouths, Harry panting and trembling as Louis puts her up against the wall. 

“This,” Harry rasps, smoothing her tongue over Louis’s lower lip teasingly before pitching forward and nipping at it. “Anything. Your mouth. Just…what do _you_ want?” 

“Fuck,” Louis moans, kissing down Harry’s neck, loving the thunder of her pulse, the way that she’s sweat-dewy and damp against her lips. “You. These,” she adds, gently thumbing at the soft, sweet underside of Harry’s right tit. “Been thinking about playing with your nipples since the very first time I saw you...you’re _so_ , so fit...love them, love how you’re always showing them off,” she babbles, blushing against Harry’s shoulder where her face is pressed. She’s usually honest with the girls she fucks, telling them exactly how lovely she thinks they are, but something about Harry makes her so nervous, so uncertain, like whatever she might have to say is too raw, too much, enough to flood this room and drown them both. 

Luckily, Harry just gasps, writhing against Louis, head falling back to expose the lovely ripple of her throat. “God, yes, please,” she whispers, voice nothing but a low, yearning scrape. “They’re really sensitive...would love that, would love your mouth on me,” she begs, and Louis makes a wordless sound in her throat as she pushes Harry's thin, next-to-nothing shirt up around her neck to look at her chest, unobstructed at long last. 

And fuck, she’s mouthwatering. Big nipples on bigger areolas, everything dark and puffy and swollen from the shift of fabric over skin, and Louis hasn’t even _done_ anything to her yet, just looked, mouth open, flooded with spit. “Fuck, Harry, look at you,” she marvels, thumbing over one nipple gently, watching it draw tight under her touch. “So fucking pretty.” 

“Like them? They’re weird...like, I was insecure forever because they’re sort of…not firm, I don’t know? Had to force myself to stop caring...wear sheer things and pretty lingerie even though m’not a Victoria’s Secret model or anything,” Harry stammers, rolling her hips lewdly as she talks, rubbing against Louis unabashedly. 

“You don’t seem insecure, not at all,” Louis tells her, pinching her nipple between forefinger and thumb and watching with awe as Harry keens, hips stuttering. “Seem so confident, so comfortable with your body…and you should be, you’re gorgeous, fucking perfect. I love your tits...couldn’t stop staring...just wanted to feel you,” Louis babbles, pressing hot, heavy kisses to her collar bones, to her pulse. “You want me to suck them? Get you all wet?” 

“ _Yes_ , yes,” Harry rasps, sliding her hands down Louis’s back, to her hips, where she squeezes. “Need it.” 

Louis’s dizzy with arousal, stomach twisting into a fierce, painful knot the second that she sucks Harry’s right nipple into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it, flicking the tight nub like she would if she were between Harry’s legs, eating her out. She sucks and bites, getting her teeth into Harry and making her yelp, buck, beg. “Fuck, _Louis_ , so good, v’been wanting this, wanting it so bad.

Louis pulls back, a filament of saliva keeping her connected to Harry’s pink skin. “Feels good?” she asks, getting her tit under her palm and _squeezing_ , firmly but gently, loving the way Harry gasps, how her skin gives.

“So good...told you, just _being around you_ gets me wet,” she whines, nuzzling into Louis’s hair, all breath and trembles. 

Louis sucks and sucks, cheeks hollowed out and aching with the force of it, with how badly she’s been dreaming of doing exactly this, tasting Harry’s skin, making her hard and swollen and shiny. “Yeah?” Louis asks, rolling one nipple between her fingers while she nips and sucks at the other, drunk on the flavour of her skin, her sweat. “You wet now?” she asks, teeth grazing Harry where she’s most sensitive. 

“Louis, v’been wet since I first saw you today,” Harry pants, finding Louis’s hand where it’s cupping her and pushing it down over her soft, heaving tummy and past the tight elastic waistband of her skirt to the heat of her thigh. Then, she draws Louis’s trembling fingers up the inside, where she’s velvet-smooth, sweat-damp. “You can feel,” she tells her, hooking her own fingers into the crotch of her knickers (thin, lacy boyshorts from the feel of them against Louis’s knuckles) and tugging them aside. 

Louis holds her breath, wondering if this is a dream, gently dipping her fingers into Harry where she’s slickest and molten first, then whimpering as she drags those wet fingers up, smoothing them through soft folds, loving how Harry's public hair is matted down in wetness. She carefully nudges her fingers over Harry's clit, where she's hard and sweet like candy, Louis’s mouth watering at the mere _thought_ of what it would be like to spread her apart and lick her here. “God, such a mess for me baby, just dripping,” Louis praises, breath hot against the shell of Harry’s ear. She slides her fingers back down toward her slit, and Harry shudders and whines, pushing desperately into the pressure, so fucking eager. “You like that?” Louis asks, pushing just the tip of her index and middle fingers into Harry, where she’s smooth and burning and clenching up. “S’okay if I feel you inside?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Harry chants, greedily spreading her legs and bearing down so that Louis slides easily up into her, up to the second joint. She’s so _hot_ inside, her tight little hole sucking like a mouth as Louis fucks her open with slow, deliberate drags of her crooked fingers. Everything about this feels so perfect and _dirty_ , holding Harry against the wall in some public toilet, getting her fingers up under her skirt, and holding her knickers aside because she can’t even wait to take them off properly. 

“You feel so fucking good inside...can hardly stand it,” she groans, fucking into her deep and pushing against her so that Harry cries out, spasming. “Can’t wait to taste you...get you on your back with your pretty skirt pushed up and lick you out under it...make you so so fucking wet that you drip down those gorgeous thighs,” she hisses, making Harry keen and buck and moan. It’s just so _much_ , having her like this, hot and gripping tightly around her fingers, it’s so much that Louis’s beside herself, shaking, forgetting to breathe, slicking up the inside of her own briefs with each subsequent plummet of her stomach. She buries her face between Harry’s soft tits, her own spit getting them wet as she rubs her cheeks against Harry’s nipples before getting one in her mouth and sucking hard. 

“Louis, Louis, _please_ ,” Harry whimpers. “Touch my clit again, and I’ll come, just rub it a bit and—,” her voice cuts out and sharpens into a high, strangled whine as Louis does what she says, sliding her fingers from the slick heat of her cunt to her clit, where she’s hard and sensitive and palpably _throbbing_. Louis prefers using her mouth to her fingers; she’s always worried about hurting girls or being too rough, so she's blind and nervous for a second as she feels Harry out, just cupping her with warm, insistent pressure while Harry bucks into her hand. She can tell that Harry’s close, though, messy and flooded and breathing in short, rhythmic gasps, so it only takes a minute of Louis rubbing her where she’s hardest before she locks up, yelps, and _pulses_ , the hottest fucking thing that Louis has ever felt under her fingers. 

“God, _yes_ , that’s it, baby, give it to me,” Louis gasps, forehead pressed to Harry’s clavicle, hard nipple still swollen against Louis’s lips as she brings her off, riding the aftershocks of Harry’s orgasm. 

The first thing she does when she gets her hand back is _smell_ it, bringing her shiny, newly dimpled fingers to her nose to inhale all of Harry’s musk and spice and saltiness. “Fuck,” she sighs blissfully, sucking them off. “Cannot _wait_ to eat you out.” 

“Fuck,” Harry echoes back, looking even more disheveled than usual, one stray curl caught on the wet rose of her lips. “I’m gonna collapse,” she warns, knees buckling and the whole of her sliding a few inches down the wall. 

Louis, giddy like she came even if she only made Harry come, catches her around the waist, wheezy with laughter. “Whoa, hey there,” she giggles, shouldering Harry's weight a bit to bring her back to her unsteady feet, leather Chelsea boots pigeon-toed and shaky. “I got you...gonna hold you up.” 

Harry sighs, head rolling so that she can bury her nose in Louis’s hair. “You lost your hat,” she observes. 

“You might have knocked it off in your, like, _fervour_ to snog me,” she explains, pulling back because as good as it feels to have Harry snuffling against her, she wants to see her, she wants to _look_ , really look, at this girl broken open and panting and frayed at the edges, a mess all because of her. “I sort of left it on the floor. I obviously had other priorities, like getting under your shirt and making you come on my fingers.” She says it nonchalantly, just to watch the colour rise on Harry’s cheeks, and it _does_ , her bright eyes so green and smile so white and flashing that it hurts, cuts into Louis’s heart. “Fuck,” Louis marvels, shaking her head. “You’re so beautiful.” 

Harry blushes even deeper, lips pursing but doing nothing to hide her smile. Her dimples give her away. “ _You_ are,” she says, leaning in and pressing a single, hot, open-mouthed kiss to Louis’s lips, tongue swirling for a searing moment before she pulls away. “I’ve thought so for forever, and I’m so, _so_ glad I asked you out finally, but I’m mostly glad that we actually _talked_ and figured out that we’re on the same page. Otherwise, I was gonna go home and fuck myself and cry at the same time. S’like, an expertise of mine.” 

Louis bursts into an unexpected peal of laughter, Harry snorts back, and their giggles dissolve into hysterics that take them entirely too long to recover from. “Think our food is still there, or did they clear us out?” Louis asks, still sort of hiccupy, arms hooked around Harry’s waist while she stands in front of the mirror and fixes her hair. She can see the outline of her nipples through her shirt again, and feels all stomach-swoopy and shivery and pleased to know that her _mouth_ was just there, that after they finish dinner, they can go back to her flat and she can get Harry properly _naked_ , mark those soft, creamy tits up with bites. 

“I hope not,” Harry replies, arranging her fringe and making a face. “Fuck, wish I had a headscarf. You really ruined my hair...it’s even more of a mess than usual.” 

Louis kisses up Harry’s neck, inhaling from her, identifying lavender and lotion and incense smoke, sex and dirty hair and turpentine. It's the best smell she’s ever smelled, that and the remnants of Harry on her fingers, which she keeps bringing up to her nose and sniffing, making sure that Harry catches her in the mirror every time because, _fuck_ , how did she even live before she got to make this girl blush? “I didn’t notice, if I’m honest. I think it’s cute. You’re a cute mess.” 

“ _You’re_ a cute mess,” Harry tells her, and Louis pretends to be offended, poking her in the side, in the bare strip of skin showing between her crop top and the waistband of her skirt. It’s amazing, really, that the awkwardness has just _melted away,_ that every preconceived notion or fear that Louis let rule her was so wrong. 

“Hey,” she says, squeezing Harry’s hips gently. “Thank you for being the brave one who actually called me out on my bullshit and asked me what was up. I dunno if I would have been able to do it…wouldn’t have asked you outright, would’ve just kept on thinking you weren’t into me. So thanks.” 

Harry inhales raggedly, turning around so that she can throw her arms around Louis’s neck and hug her _tight_. “I was so scared to say it. I didn't _want_ to, but I thought…fuck, if you’re _wrong_ , and she does like you, and you pass up that opportunity just because you’re insecure…I couldn’t bear it. I just want you so badly, I had to…I had to know. And fifteen minutes later, your fingers were in me, so. Hooray for honesty and all that.”

Louis laughs, even though her eyes are welling up and her throat feels impossibly tight, face hot where it’s buried in Harry’s smooth neck. Harry’s so…she’s _amazing_ , really, so fiercely refreshing and open and raw, her words forever tumbling from those perfect lips imperfectly, but tumbling all the same. She’s afraid to be who she is and ask for what she wants, but she does it _anyway,_ and it makes sense, really, why Louis feels so clumsy and tongue-tied and awestruck around her. It makes sense, really, because she’s the exact sort of girl worth falling in love with. “This is gonna sound silly, but like…I really admire you,” Louis admits, voice quiet. “There’s such a, like, _habit_ in the lesbian dating world of just letting things die or fizzle out because it’s too scary to pursue it…I know I play into it, even though I hate it, because… m’always so worried of, like, seeming predatory or getting rejected? Or both? I dunno, I just…thanks for, like, not letting me fall into that trap this time. Because I really, really, really like you.” 

“I really, really, really like you, too,” Harry confesses.”And honestly, it seems crazy that you could admire _me_ when I've admired _you_ for so long. Just seeing you on campus with your short hair and flannels and, like, not giving a single fuck about how gay you look. It’s really inspiring, actually, since, like…before uni, I sort of tried to be more girly than I actually am…I mean, I like girly stuff,” Harry explains, as Louis’s hands wander down her back to toy with the hem of her pink swishy skater skirt questioningly, “but I mean…wearing makeup and push-up bras everyday and caring about how boys saw me even though the thought of dating one made me wanna die. Basically, I don’t even think you know how wonderful it is just to see another girl and _know_ , to absolutely know without a doubt that she’s gay, and to see her have friends and laugh and be happy and confident and sexy…it gave me sort of, like, motivation to be happy and confident and sexy, too, I guess.” 

“You’re very sexy, and you deserve to be very happy and confident,” Louis mumbles, pulling back to wipe her eyes because, like, this is a lot, and Harry’s a lot, and in less than an hour she’s gone from thinking that this was the last time she was ever gonna see her to wondering how soon is too soon to make, like…marriage plans. “I’d like to make you happy, if you’d let me. I’d like to take you out again and again and to be your girlfriend and all that, but, like…maybe we should finish our burgers first, yeah?” 

Harry laughs, palms flying to her cheeks to cup them as they flush, yet again. “I’d like that, all of that,” she sighs, taking Louis’s hand and bringing it to her lips to kiss. “Think we can skip the movie, though?” she asks coyly, unfurling one of Louis’s fingers from her palm and popping it into her mouth. She’s slick and hot inside, and Louis’s stomach trips before it drops as she thinks not only of what Harry feels like inside, so tight and wet, but also of what her _mouth_ feels like, the sloppy-sweet suck of it and what it might feel like between her own legs. Harry slides Louis’s finger out and whispers, “I’d really like to go home with you instead. Get down on my knees and spend the rest of the night eating you out, licking you up. If you'd, like…be into that.

Louis shakes her head, _stunned_ that this girl is real and that she’s here with her, sucking her fingers and talking filth. She pulls Harry in by the wrist and kisses her smirking mouth _hard_ , teeth behind it, the promise of a bite, the promise of so many more dates, kisses, orgasms, years. If Harry will have them. “I’d be very, very into that,” she tells her, “I’d absolutely love it.” 

_And you, someday_ , she thinks, squeezing Harry's hand as they unlock the door together. _And you._


End file.
